


"Oh, no! It's definitely you."

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inhalant abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Substance Abuse, but also present, charden... mostly past, dennis is a big gay disaster, past macdennis, post Mac And Dennis Break Up / Mac Fights Gay Marriage, pre Mac coming out, starting to feel self-conscious about how many of these fics involve sad boys crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 13:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: “He’s talking about me, when he talks about people like that. Charlie—”Charlie shakes his head rapidly. When he interrupts, he sounds just as tired as Dennis feels. “He’s talking about himself, dude.”(Sometimes, Mac's homophobic tirades get to be too much. So Dennis closes himself off in the back office and gets high with Charlie. It's fine. He probably won't even remember this tomorrow.)





	"Oh, no! It's definitely you."

“This is weird, dude. I don’t feel good about this,” Charlie says.

“Right.”

With a sigh, Dennis takes a step back and falls back onto the desk chair. The grating squeak of its rusted metal parts echoes off the walls of the back office.  Charlie winces at the sound.

“It’s just, like…” He fidgets with the frayed edges along the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, avoiding eye contact entirely. Dennis can't say he minds that right now. “I dunno. I’m not supposed to say anything,” Charlie concludes vaguely.

“Then don’t,” Dennis replies, eager to cut off the rest of this conversation.

“It’s just, like, I _would_. Or I _might_, anyway, but…”

Dennis grits his teeth and digs his fingernails into his denim-covered thighs until it stings just _so._ He forces his voice level and even. “Dude. Are you seriously gonna give me the _‘it’s not you; it’s me’_ speech? Because if you do, I might actually scream.”

Without even thinking for a second, Charlie blurts out his response: “Oh, no! It’s definitely you.”

It stings, more than a little. On top of everything else, on top of the rest of this shitty goddamn day, it’s like salt in a wound. Actually, salt would be infinitely preferable, if he's being honest.

“Awesome," he sighs. "Thanks, man.”

“Okay, it’s a little bit me, too? I mean, like, you know I don’t—“ Charlie gestures vaguely into the space between them. “I don’t really do that? But, like, also it’s you.”

Dennis tips his head back onto the chair and closes his eyes, willing himself to be anywhere else.  “Right. Okay.”

It isn’t a big deal, or it shouldn’t be. It feels like it is, but Dennis still isn't going to push it; he isn't going to push _Charlie._

After all, an attractive and charming man like Dennis could easily find numerous people who are not only willing, but also eager. People who could give him exactly what he wants, and then some. That is, he could, if only Charlie would shut the fuck up and let him move past this minor disaster.

Because as far as Dennis is concerned, it’s not the saying no that feels so bad; it’s the talking about it afterward.

Being told no was bad enough, but Charlie clumsily explaining himself is far more humiliating. Dennis would rather drop it immediately and pretend the whole incident never happened. Pretending, in his own mind, that he never asked. That he was never told no. That yet another person in his life doesn’t find him filthy and disgusting and _too much._

But, as usual, Charlie simply won’t stop talking. Not once he gets started. Not once he gets momentum behind him and really starts to ramble.

“And Mac? Like, it’s really Mac, too. Not what he said before, about all the gay stuff. Not _just_ that, anyway. It's just... You know how he is about you. Even when he's all—Shit, like I said, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

This means that someone, somewhere — most likely Dee, the traitorous bitch — instructed Charlie not to talk about Mac and Dennis. Which is insane, because there _is_ no Mac and Dennis. There never was. Or if there was, there isn’t now. There hasn’t been in years. It’s all over. Done. Dead.

Hence: Charlie. Back office. Getting high on paint thinner. Mac’s ugly homophobic proclamations dissolving into toxic fumes. Feeling light and euphoric. Watching Charlie do a stupid, little dance. Bursting into breathless giggles. Pressing Charlie into the desk and trading lazy, sloppy kisses as they came down from their highs.

And yeah, maybe Dennis had been pushing his luck. It is Charlie, after all. But in his defense, they were high. If it weren’t for that, Dennis never would’ve let things go as far as they did. If it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t have let any of those pathetic words slip past his lips, into the scant space between them. If it weren’t for that, they wouldn’t be having this conversation right now—

This conversation, where Charlie is awkwardly trying to say no, trying to let Dennis down easy. Like he thinks Dennis is emotionally fragile, overly-sensitive, and unstable. Like Charlie is suddenly sensitive and caring. Like he isn’t the same guy who has, on countless occasions, shouted profanities in Dennis’s face. Harsh words like: _oh hell, no;_ and _fuck off; _and _shut the fuck up;_ and _fuck you._ (And, once, when Charlie was high on coke and pissed about something entirely inconsequential: _jump up your own ass and die.)_

Charlie is fidgeting, bouncing a leg up and down rapidly, and watching Dennis warily. “He'd kill me, though, dude. He would.”

“Shut up," Dennis cuts him off. “Just _stop_ it. Stop talking about Mac. In this situation, there _is_ no Mac.”

It’s immediately obvious that wasn’t the best wording to use on Charlie, who has a tendency to take things literally. The expression on his face clearly communicates that he thinks Dennis has gone completely insane, or has suddenly been rendered senile.

“Yeah, there is,” Charlie scoffs. “You literally live with the guy.”

“No, I know,” Dennis snaps.

“We work with him. Known him for years? Dumb tattoos, lots of hair gel?”

“I know! Jesus Christ. I just mean… Mac has nothing to do with this. It isn’t about him.”

Charlie tilts his head to one side and squints at Dennis. “It’s not?”

Dennis sighs. “Just forget it. I don’t know why I even bother—”

_“Ohhh,”_ Charlie says slowly. His eyes are twinkling, and his wide grin spells out disaster. Or chaos, at the very least. “No, I think I know what this is about.”

_“Way_ more trouble than it’s worth,” Dennis mutters.

“Nah. That’s not it. You don’t want me to bang you.” Charlie sounds far too confident, entirely matter-of-fact. Not at all like someone who may be a few small words away from completely obliterating Dennis's self-esteem. “You’re just trying to make yourself _feel better._ Like, about yourself.”

“What?” Dennis says flatly.

Charlie’s words land like a punch to the gut, and settle heavy and low inside Dennis. He desperately wants to tell Charlie to fuck off. He wants to say it’s the most absurd thing Charlie has ever said, and that's saying a lot. More than anything, he wants for Charlie to be wrong. But the way words sit inside him feels too real. It feels unsettlingly as if there may be truth to it.

“You heard me. You need me to validate you, baby?” Charlie teases him. “Is that it?”

Dennis narrows his eyes and scowls, ignoring the uncomfortable fluttering of his heart sparked by the old pet name. Charlie hasn’t called him that in years. No one has. Not since the last time he and Mac—

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” snaps Dennis.

One corner of Charlie’s mouth turns up in a faint grin. “I think you do.”

And then he’s climbing up onto Dennis’s lap, wedging his knees around Dennis, squirming around to make room for himself on the chair. The thing is old as shit and absolutely was not designed to support this kind of seating arrangement. There’s a precarious moment where it tips forward with an ominous creak.

“Shit,” Dennis hisses.

He throws his arms out to brace himself against the desk, steadying the whole thing, pushing himself and Charlie back upright. Charlie clings on with one arm wrapped around Dennis’s neck, the fingers of his other hand digging into Dennis’s shoulder.

“My bad,” Charlie says lightly. He doesn’t seem sufficiently apologetic for a person who nearly got them both killed — their skulls cracked against the desk, or on the floor, or—

“Dennis.” Charlie’s breath is warm against his ear. _“Hey, Dennis.”_ It sounds mischievous, teasing more than flirting. He has no idea what Charlie is getting at.

“What,” he snaps. When he looks down, he finds his arms have wound their way around Charlie’s waist without his conscious awareness.

Charlie noses at his cheek. Does he think this is seductive? It’s mostly just bizarre. But then, Charlie is weird as shit, too, so it shouldn’t be surprising.

“_Dennis.”_ It comes out all sing-songy this time.

_“What?_ What are you doing? What is this?”

Charlie snickers. “I have no idea,” he answers through his laughter. He presses a brief kiss to Dennis’ cheek.

“Who’s a pretty boy? It’s Dennis,” Charlie sings through quiet snickers. “The best bartender in the world? It’s Dennis. The best bastard man? It’s Dennis!” The tune is nearly as unimpressive as the lyrics. Actually, the lyrics are horrendous and borderline offensive, even for Charlie.

It’s not reassuring. It’s not validating. It's sheer mockery; and not even well-executed mockery, at that.

Dennis scowls. “Stop laughing at me, asshole,” he snaps.

“I’m not,” Charlie protests through faint laughter. “I’m just—It’s just, like, stupid. Not _you._ Just, like, the whole—”

“Screw you, man,” Dennis snarls. He moves to shove Charlie off of his lap, but Charlie only clings on tighter.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he pleads. “C’mon. I’m just high, dude. I’m trying.” The tone of voice alone is enough to give Dennis pause.

He leaves his hands on Charlie, still prepared to shove him off at a moment’s notice. But he lets himself relax a bit, lets his fingertips drag down and rest against the worn-soft cotton of Charlie’s t-shirt.

“Alright. Seriously, if this is about what Mac said before—”

“It’s not.” His protest comes out far too fast, too vehement, ultimately betraying just how much it _is _about Mac.

One corner of Charlie’s mouth turns down slightly and his eyebrows furrow together. “It obviously is. And dude? All that is bullshit anyway. Seriously, Mac’s a fuckin’ idiot. One time, he told me the reason dinosaurs are extinct is ‘cause they didn’t make it onto Noah’s Arc.”

In spite of himself, Dennis can’t help but laugh. It stings, for reasons he can't place.

Charlie continues rambling, firm and determined: “Honestly, half the stuff he says to me is just white noise at this point. I don’t even listen, man. And it’s like… what does Mac ever even do around here? Nothing, right? You and me, Den? We keep this place in business. We run a tight ship. So, like, _fuck_ Mac. We don’t need that shit!”

Dennis nods, but can’t bring himself to respond properly. Because the worst part of it all is that he _does_ need Mac — more than he's ever been able to say, more than he's ever been able to make sense of, even just inside his own head.

“Hey, c’mon.” Charlie nudges his chin up. When Dennis looks up, h is expression is warm and open, honest and unguarded.

It fills Dennis up with warmth, like stepping out into the sun on the first real day of spring. If he were shameless, or if he were high, he’d melt into Charlie and try to soak it all up. But he isn’t. He knows he can’t have everything he wants. He can’t even have everything he _needs._

But Charlie’s hands are soft and gentle on his waist, unselfconscious, not visibly overthinking every touch, the way he normally does. So maybe Charlie is still a little high. And maybe Dennis is a little high, too. Otherwise, why would he seek out one last, desperate, needy kiss?

Charlie sighs ever so slightly after Dennis pulls back. “There’s nothing wrong with you," Charlie says quietly. "None of that fire and brimstone shit, anyway. Fuck that, dude.”

This time, Charlie closes the distance between them. This time, he’s slower, more deliberate than Dennis allowed himself to be. Like it’s okay to be needy. Like it’s okay to want.

“Better?” Charlie murmurs afterward. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he searches Dennis’s expression for the answer.

The soft look on Charlie’s face and the quiet, calm quality of his voice are so unlike him. So unlike the way _anyone_ has been with Dennis in ages. It’s too much. Dennis closes his eyes, shakes his head, and clears his throat. He can’t trust his voice to speak right now. He can't trust himself to make eye contact, to look at Charlie's face, so open and honest and relaxed.

“You’re lying," Charlie says. Even without looking, the grin is audible in his voice, so smug and bright. "Oh, you’re _so_ easy, dude. I love it.”

“Man, fuck you,” Dennis mutters, but he can’t quite make it sound like he means it.  Because all of a sudden, he finds himself exhausted. It feels as if — for the first time in months — all the fight has left him. He'd much rather fight than this. This quiet, bone-weary resignation. This pathetic desire to retreat from the world and everyone in it. To go home, to hide in bed under his comforter until the entire world passes him by.

Instead, he buries his head into the warm crook of Charlie’s neck. And then there’s a warm hand at the small of his back, and fingers carding through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Den. I am. I’m real fuckin’ sorry, dude.”

He can feel the barely perceptible vibrations of Charlie's voice where their bodies are pressed together. The words take on a real and tangible presence, giving them added weight. Charlie never apologizes. Especially not for something that isn’t his fault. Why would he? Why would _anyone?_

“Seriously," Charlie insists, "Mac’s a real dick. And like, I love him like he’s my brother, mostly. But… I dunno, I can’t even believe him sometimes. I can’t stand him, dude. And he’s just wrong on this. He’s just dead fuckin’ wrong. But you gotta just tune it out. It’s, like, he’s on his own bullshit, and it’s not even about you, so—”

Immediately, Dennis pulls back; Charlie falls silent mid-sentence. The earnest expression on his face feels almost like a second betrayal: first Mac, now Charlie.

“Yeah it is,” Dennis croaks. “He’s talking about _me_, when he talks about people like that. _Charlie—”_

Charlie shakes his head rapidly. When he interrupts, he sounds just as tired as Dennis feels. “He’s talking about himself, dude.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” he shouts.

Silence falls upon them, immediate and heavy. Charlie just blinks at him — dumbfounded, speechless.

Dennis wishes he could pluck the words out of the air and shove them back into his mouth. Swallow them and let them continue to fester at the bottom of his gut, so dark and ugly it fills him up, until he never wants to eat again. Failing that impossibility, he simply wishes to have said it in a not so completely desperate way.

Quiet, restrained, and delicate; poised and unaffected. That’s the Dennis he wants to be. Not this ugly, desperate, shaking version of himself, hiding in the back office. No this version of Dennis who's still clinging to his ex-boyfriend-who-was-never-_really_-his-boyfriend. (Because ain't it just a bitch when no one that you like, likes you back? Not in the way you want. Not in the way you need.)

“I know,” Charlie acknowledges at length. “But fucking you isn’t gonna make it better.”

Tears prickle at the corners of Dennis's eyes. It’s humiliating — the powerlessness of being so quickly and easily reduced to tears. The shame of being known and read so easily. He looks up at the ceiling and blinks rapidly, desperate to will the tears away. The emotions, too, while he’s at it.

Hot, calloused palms cradle Dennis’s face, the way Dennis used to do with Mac.

“Hey,” Charlie soothes him. “It’s okay.” Another soft kiss. Warm chapped lips. Warm soft voice. “You’re alright.”

And that does it.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is quiet, but ugly; raw and naked. It's naked emotion. There's no disguising it, no hiding from it at this point.

_“Jesus,_ Dennis,” Charlie exhales. It’s a familiar tone of voice, a familiar reaction. It's the one that says, predictably and reliably: _Wow, you’re a lot._

(“Needy” and "whiny" his dad — no, _Frank_ — used to call him. “High-strung” was his mom’s term for it. “A melodramatic little bitch,” according to Dee. "A drama queen," Mac likes to say.)

But this time, Charlie follows it up with one word: “Alright,” sighed quiet and accepting into the space between them.

Dennis buries his now-damp face in his hands, as if that could shield Charlie from the knowledge that he’s crying. As if it could keep the tears contained, or keep any more from falling. It doesn’t. It never works. But, at the very least, it keeps the other person from seeing your ugly face as you cry. It saves you from having to make eye contact as you completely humiliate yourself.

The palms of Dennis's hands are wet. He’s almost certainly smearing his makeup.

Ugly. So ugly.

It’s only another few agonizing seconds before Charlie pulls him close again, with a hand on his shoulder. Both of them must be high still; they must. Because Charlie, who’s normally averse to contact, wraps his arms back around Dennis, and holds on tight. He lets Dennis cling back and sob into his shoulder, like it's nothing.

It’s easily one of the most pathetic moments of Dennis’s life, but Charlie seems like he’ll let it slide. He doesn’t tease, and he doesn’t complain. Instead, he repeats quiet reassurances and pets at Dennis’s hair. His baffled acceptance almost makes it more painful.

His friends rolling their eyes at him; the exasperated “are you seriously crying, dude?” from Mac; and Dee’s frustrated cursing? It stings, but it’s familiar. Dennis knows how to handle that. This, though — this is unfamiliar territory. It feels warm, like something could grow here. It feels suspiciously like being nurtured. It’s terrifying.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charlie murmurs. “I got you, dude.”

If you ignore less-than-ideal behaviors, they die out quickly. Shame is a fast killer, a potent motivating force; Dennis learned this from his mother. Anything promising that Dee ever did went unacknowledged, until she simply gave up. Dennis may have been the Golden Child, but he wasn't immune to this treatment.

One of the most notable instances, for him, was the evening Barbara had walked in on him and Mac making out in her kitchen. The gang had all gotten together to celebrate Dee getting out of the hospital, and... Well, shit happened.

Barbara didn’t say a single word about it — then, or ever. It was like it never happened. She was getting ready for a gala that night, Dennis remembers. As she left, she promised to pass along his number to an eligible young woman she'd heard would be in attendance.

A few years later, Dennis graduated from Penn. He moved in with Mac, and opened a bar with Mac. Still, his mother never mentioned it. She died without them ever talking about it. It's weird, realizing that they never will now.

It wasn’t like he _needed_ her to know. But he _wanted_ her to. After all, how can someone love you if they don’t really know who you are? If there are parts of you they can’t stand to look at, much less to talk about? How can someone truly love you if they find parts of you to be literally unspeakable?

Sometimes, he almost wishes Mac found it unspeakable. Unfortunately, Mac has far too much to say, and all of it is painfully ignorant.

One of his favorites is when Mac pulls out his copy of _the Catechism,_ and flips through the dogeared pages and highlighted blocks of text —  as if either of them has forgotten what it says. He'll remind Dennis the Catholic Church calls homosexuality “intrinsically disordered.” Dennis studied psychology at an Ivy League University, but you don’t need a psych background to know that's complete bullshit. All you need is common-fucking-sense and basic human decency.

Mac, however, seems lacking in both areas. Because with each passing year, he grows further and further entrenched in the weird religious-tinged homophobia he seemed to pick up overnight, almost perfectly coinciding with their "break-up." Their break-up-that-wasn't-a-break-up.

Dennis doesn't believe in God, or religion, or any of that shit. Moreover, he knows Mac is completely and entirely wrong.

So most days, Dennis can ignore it or stuff it down.  But on days like today? It cuts down to the core. It aches like a knife to the chest, although it's hard to place why. Frank and Charlie and Dee don't seem nearly as affected.

He catalogues the pain, on days like today. Pokes at it, trying to diagnose what hurts.

Diagnose it, and you can treat it. Treat it, and you can walk away cured.

Maybe what's painful is that Mac believes it all. He believes it, and he repeats it, in spite of everything he knows about Dennis.

W hen Dennis is drunk enough, or high enough, or depressed enough, he lets himself look at the situation from a more dangerous angle. Because the truth is this: it hurts the most because of this thing between himself and Mac. This thing that's been simmering under the surface all these years, bubbling up occasionally and unpredictably. Frank, Charlie, and Dee never had that with Mac. So of course it's easier for them to look the other way. Of course the path of least resistance, for them, is waiting until Mac rants himself into exhaustion.

But there are days like today when Mac can’t even look at Dennis. It's almost as if he thinks Dennis is a monster leading him to sin.  Like sin is real, and Hell is real, and they all take on corporeal form in one Dennis Reynolds. Those are the days Dennis feels sick to his stomach, ill with an emotion he can’t identify.

It’s terrifying, feeling abandoned by someone who hasn’t actually left. Someone who sleeps in the next room over. Someone who drives with him to work, and stands by his side all day. It feels like being fourteen again, and watching his mother pull away, right when he'd (mistakenly) believed he needed her the most.

It's emotional abandonment, if not physical.

Dennis realized that this morning, the abandonment thing. Maybe that was the tipping point for him.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe it was that afternoon, when Mac walked in on him reapplying his makeup in the men’s room at Paddy’s. He’d stared at Dennis in the mirror, slack-jawed and wide eyed. It had taken Mac a long, tense moment to catch himself. Once he did, he immediately turned around and stumbled back out into the bar without saying a word. Dennis could practically hear him reciting scripture passages in his head.

Barely an hour later, Mac was wasted. He had worked himself into another panic, gesticulating wildly as he cycled through the same talking points they’d all heard before.

Yeah, that was definitely the breaking point for Dennis.

The words slipped out before he thought them through all the way: “You know, if you have something to say to me, I think you should just come right out and say it. Come to me like a man.”

Thankfully, Mac didn’t take him up on that offer. But what was Dennis expecting? That Mac would publicly condemn him for being gay? No, instead, Mac stammered out some bullshit about saving his friends’ “eternal souls.” Dennis has grown to loathe that phrase. He hopes to all hell that his soul isn’t eternal — not if eternity means another eternity of listening to this shit.

Maybe there was more arguing, either before that, or after it. Or perhaps there wasn’t. It’s already jumbled up in Dennis's mind, fragmented and hazy. He probably won’t remember most of this by tomorrow, anyway.

“Hell isn’t real, you dumb motherfucker,” he shouted at some point.  “And if it is real? You know what hell is, Mac?”

Mac’s pale face and wide eyes sent a sick thrill through him.

Dennis took a rattling breath in. His mind caught for a few seconds on the feeling of adrenaline flooding his body, the uncomfortable fluttering of his heart racing away in his chest.  “It’s one square foot of real estate, right up there in that thick fuckin’ skull of yours," he spat out the answer into the horrible, gaping space between them. "I’m so _sick_ of this shit.”

Not long after, he found himself closed off in the back office, with only a faint memory of what had happened in between. The adrenaline was just leaving his system; his hands shook with the last of it. A pile of paperclips lay scattered on the desk in front of him. He vaguely recalled swiping his hand over the desk's surface, sending everything flying. An assortment of papers, envelopes, bills, pens, and pencils lie around him. The mess is maddening.

Charlie came in some time later, to offer a can of paint thinner he dug out the back of a desk drawer. By then, the paperclips were arranged in neat little rows across the desktop; Charlie eyed them curiously. Dennis swept them back into their container. Everything else was left where his temper tantrum had sent it. Like bodies in a battlefield.

So they got high. They made out.

This makes sense. This is fine.

It’s over, this thing with Mac. Dennis shouldn’t be crying. Certainly not for as long as he has been.

“You’re okay, Den. Just breathe, dude, seriously,” Charlie says, and he rubs a hand firmly up and down Dennis’s back — grounding, steady, even.

But he isn’t okay. Dennis has never been _less_ okay. He has never felt more sick in his life. On those days — days like today — where Mac seems uncomfortable with Dennis's very physical presence, Dennis doesn’t even try forcing food down his throat. Why bother? So he’s nauseas and achingly hungry. On the other hand, he’s losing weight, and that never hurts.

So hey, it doesn’t matter then, does it? Nothing matters much, in the end.

If Dennis could only learn to shut off his emotions more consistently, to keep them under control, then he could avoid encounters like this one, and the one with Mac earlier.

Charlie’s voice falters as he searches for more nonsense reassurances to repeat. He must be running out of things to say, or is tired of repeating himself. He almost certainly doesn't realize how long Dennis tuned out his words (and the rest of the world with them). Although, to be honest, Dennis himself doesn't, either. It's been long enough, judging by how much his legs are aching with the weight of Charlie still perched atop his lap.

Charlie can't possibly feel comfortable, either — physically or emotionally. Surely he feels as self-conscious as Dennis does.

Or perhaps he doesn't, because he doesn't leave. And all of a sudden, he switches to singing quietly. He rocks them gently from side to side, in time with his singing. Something about the slow song and even melody is soothing, almost like a lullaby. The lyrics, of course, are not typical lullaby fare. He starts with the Dayman song, predictably. From there, it spirals into typical Charlie material: a vaguely disturbing word salad, the content somehow related to spiders and oysters and rats. And holes, or souls, or _whatever._

Dennis focuses on listening to the nonsense lyrics, instead of the racing angry thoughts inside his own head. He focuses on taking measured, even, deep breaths. He focuses on forcing down the last of his tears, the last of this big mess of jumbled-up emotion. The feeling settles heavy in the pit of his stomach, along with the ugly memory of Mac’s words. He feels about ten pounds heavier, ten pounds uglier; but at least he knows a solution for that.

Once he feels steady enough, certain he’s done crying, he detaches himself from Charlie. He swipes a hand across his still-damp face and lets out a self-conscious, breathy little laugh.  Surely even Charlie can grasp the subtext: _Yeah,_ the laugh says, _I know, I’m a mess._

Charlie hands him a box of tissues off the desk. “Better?”

Dennis carefully dabs at his wet face, his smudged makeup. It's definitely ruined, not that Charlie knows enough to cares about that. He swallows past the lump in his throat, and nods. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Good.” Charlie awkwardly crawls off his lap, stretches his arms above his head with a loud groan, and grabs the can of paint thinner off the desk. After a couple of hits, he whoops exuberantly. “Man, that’s good shit! Just what the doctor ordered.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “It really isn’t,” he grumbles, but reaches for it anyway. “Give it here.”

After a couple hits of his own, he feels wonderfully lightheaded. All that bullshit Mac was spewing earlier seems far away once more. Dennis has the faint awareness that everything will come back at full force one the high wears off, or once he’s confronted with Mac again.

He takes another huff of paint thinner. It doesn’t feel so important right now, in this moment.

He slumps back into the chair. Charlie plops down along the edge of the desk and blinks down at Dennis through bloodshot eyes. “It’s gonna be alright, y’know,” he mumbles.

It isn’t, but given enough paint thinner, Dennis might just believe it.


End file.
